New York is full of all types, addicts, victims, fanatics, sycophants, beasts, and monarchs. Each have their own little special place. Some float down the gutters into irrelevance while others rise to the top to lord over the others from their dark towers. The first estate, with all its gleaming, choses to write edicts, but cares nothing for what actually stirs beneath the floor boards of their great house. The second estate on the other hand, pretends to care while all the time seeming to overlook the obvious creaking in the floor boards. The spear has some explaining to do and I’m sure that the brass upstairs won’t be happy to hear that one of their very own tried to destroy the Gomorrah they claimed Manhattan island has turned into. Again, we are faced with a dying crop, the doctor says that most of the infected have about six months before the end and if the virus keeps spreading unchecked, we are going to be nose deep in rotten fruit.
At least we have the satisfaction of seeing the blood spilled from the plague-dogs that have been troubling our city, but I’m afraid the damage is done. If not too our stock, more so to the ones we love. I never thought of loss in almost six years now. I was forced to turn my back on my mortal life, but some of us encompass ourselves with it to anchor our memory in what we once were. Dorian Masters will have to face what I will probably never have to know, and thats the loss of several of his closest. With only six months, he has decisions to make and realities to face in the upcoming days. I can only assume that the humane thing to do would be to ghoul or turn his herd, but with such numbers, it would be difficult.
There is sickness all around, even some of our own are spiraling down into chaos, with the preacher showing more and more signs of madness he may be a liability too. With the last little outburst I see now that if things get worse, I may have to face the same realities as Dorian; stop the spread of a disease that may eventually effect us all.